The Forget-Me-Not Summer (37 page)

‘Awful, isn't it?' she said softly. ‘Poor Steve, you really have been chucked in at the deep end, haven't you? For the rest of us it's come gradually, with each raid worse than the last. Yet somehow one never gets used to it. The kids are petrified simply by the noise, and when one of the parachute mines lands too close you get the most horrible sensation, as if your brain is being pulled out through your ears. I'm told that's the result of blast, and apparently if you're near enough blast can kill you just as effectively as a direct hit. If it weren't for the fact that while we're in the shelter we're not makin' work for the
wardens I'd far rather be out in the open, and I expect you feel the same.'

Steve put his arm round her and gave her a gentle squeeze, then kissed the side of her face. ‘You're right, Miranda; that's exactly how I feel,' he said quietly. ‘It's an odd thing, because when I'm flying I don't feel confined in any way, but now I feel boxed in and helpless.'

Miranda chuckled. ‘Everyone does, I'm sure,' she said. ‘But don't worry – tomorrow, when the fire service are trying to douse the flames and the wardens and anyone else who offers are digging out survivors and roping off dangerous buildings, your help will be very much appreciated. I've never managed to sleep in a shelter, though lots of people do, so I usually go back to the flat after the all clear has sounded, get a couple of hours' kip and then go and offer my services at the nearest ARP post.' She grinned at him. ‘Care to follow my example? You can have the sofa again, or you can go home to Jamaica Close and get yourself a proper eight hours.'

Steve returned her grin, then winced and ducked as a whistling roar announced the arrival of yet another high explosive bomb. ‘I'll stick with you, babe,' he said in a mock American accent. ‘I just hope to God my mam is still safe in Wales.'

‘You said she wasn't setting out until the day before Christmas Eve, so the news that the city has been targeted will reach her in time for her to make the right decision,' Miranda pointed out. ‘Oh, Steve, I'm so sorry that your first trip home looks like being spoiled. So long as the skies stay clear – and there's a building standing in Liverpool – they'll keep up the attack, because everyone
says after they've flattened London it'll be the turn of the busiest port in the country, and that's us. Ought you to cut your leave short? I know you're not due to go back to your airfield until Boxing Day, but you could go tomorrow. I expect you'd be more use attacking the Luftwaffe.'

But Steve was shaking his head, his expression grim. ‘I'm going to stay here and do my damnedest to help,' he said. He glanced towards the end of the shelter where the warden in charge was trying to start a communal sing-song, though at present the noise from outside made such a thing impossible, and suggested that he might just slip through the curtain, steal up the smelly dank steps and take a look around, but Miranda assured him that this would not be allowed.

‘Once the warden lets one person go out there would be a concerted rush. And even if you don't realise it, Steve, it's tremendously dangerous out there. People run back into their houses to fetch a wedding photograph or a terrified cat, and never run out again. The building may collapse on them, or escaping gas from a fractured pipe catch them unawares, and there's one more death to add to the Luftwaffe's haul. So just behave like the good citizen I know you are and wait for the all clear.'

Steve sighed, but after another hour, during which Miranda leaned her head against his shoulder and actually managed to snooze, he gave her a shake.

‘Miranda, I've got to go outside for a moment. I – I
need
to go outside.'

Miranda stifled a giggle. ‘You want to spend a penny, don't you?' she asked. ‘Haven't you noticed people getting up and going behind the curtain? There's a heavy
leather one behind it, which the warden draws across as soon as the shelter's full. He keeps a couple of fire buckets in the space between them which can be used in an emergency.' She saw Steve hesitating and gave him a friendly shove. ‘Oh, come on, don't be shy! When we were kids you told me you used to swim in the Scaldy in the altogether, yet now you feel embarrassed having a pee in a bucket. It's much easier for you men than us girls; at least you don't have to squat on the edge of the thing whilst the warden pretends he's got business at the other end of the shelter. Besides, why suffer? We're all in the same boat and it may be another hour or more before they sound the all clear.'

Steve sighed but got stiffly to his feet. ‘If you're planning to make me look a fool . . .' he began, but before Miranda could assure him that she was telling the simple truth an elderly man in a patched army greatcoat and a much darned balaclava got to his feet and shuffled towards the warden. He was ushered through the curtain, which was swished shut behind him, and when he emerged again Steve was quick to jump to his feet and follow his example. Miranda was amused to see the obvious relief on his face as he returned to her side, but was too tactful to say so. Instead she hauled a small child, a girl of four or five, on to her lap and announced that it was story time, and that she would tell them all the tale of Timmy Tiddler, a very small fish who lived in a pond in the heart of a magic wood . . .

Soon Miranda was surrounded by tiny listeners, and though the noise from outside did not stop, it began to lessen as the roar of the aircraft overhead became fainter, though it was three in the morning before the longed for
notes of the all clear reverberated through the shelter. People began to rub their eyes, for many had slept once the worst of the raid was over. Belongings were collected, children claimed by parents, and the evacuation of the shelter began.

Out on the pavement, Miranda and Steve looked around them at a scene of devastation. Fires raged, and buildings which had toppled still gave off clouds of dust. Miranda sighed and tucked her hand into the crook of Steve's elbow. ‘It's worse than I thought. Those dreadful incendiaries cause fires which light up the city so that the bombers have something to aim at,' she said. ‘Steve, would you be happier if we went straight to Jamaica Close and checked that your grandmother – and my Aunt Vi, I suppose – are okay? I wouldn't mind a bit of a walk in the open air, having been penned up in the shelter for hours.'

Steve began to brush at the shoulders of his greatcoat, then gave it up, because the very air was dust-laden. ‘There won't be much open air as you call it, more like open brick dust,' he observed, ‘but I do believe you're right. We'd better check on Gran and your horrible old aunt, and once we know they're all right we can go back to your flat, get ourselves some breakfast and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. Then I mean to offer my services at the nearest ARP post.'

‘All right: Jamaica Close first, and then breakfast. Best foot forward! I wonder how Avril and Gary got on.' She chuckled. ‘Poor Gary, he was so looking forward to having Avril and the flat to himself for a change; maybe the whole building if Pete Huxtable decided to trek when he realised that the skies were clear and the moon would
be full. Have you heard about trekking? Londoners began it, I believe. You take some grub and a couple of blankets and as soon as your work finishes for the day you lock up your house and go as far into the country as you can get and stay with anyone who'll let you sleep on their floor until morning. The raid is always over before the sky gets truly light again, and if you're lucky you can catch a bus back into the city, though otherwise you have to walk. But at least you'll have had a proper night's sleep and be fit for work next day.'

‘Yes, I've heard of it, and having suffered a night in the shelter I think trekkers are doing the right thing,' Steve said. ‘I can't imagine why the government tries to discourage them . . . well, they wouldn't if they had to put up with the sort of night we've just lived through. If you ask me only a lunatic would choose to stay in a city under attack if they could possibly get away from it. But I'm just a simple sergeant-pilot.' He looked at her seriously. ‘Couldn't you trek, queen? I'd feel a deal happier if I knew you were safe out of it before the bombs begin to fall.'

They were heading along Great Homer Street, already finding it difficult to breathe the dust-laden air, and Miranda coughed before she replied. ‘Oh, I couldn't possibly. I'm a fire watcher. They position us on top of high buildings and give us either a messenger boy or what they call a field telephone so that we can report any fires in our vicinity as soon as they start. Besides, I don't have any friends or relatives living in the country, so for me – and many like me – trekking is out of the question.'

Steve nodded reluctantly. ‘I see,' he said. ‘The trouble
is, queen, what I've seen tonight has made me realise that we really are all in it together. I thought being on my station was the most dangerous job of all, but at least we don't simply sit there waiting to be shot at. We have the satisfaction of knowing we're both protecting our civilians and attacking the enemy, which is a good deal preferable to being sitting ducks.'

As they neared the turning which would lead them to Jamaica Close, there were fewer and fewer people on the pavement. Out here those who had been in communal shelters had returned to their homes and others, Miranda assumed, had come up from their cellars to snatch a few hours in bed before day dawned. They turned into the Close and went straight to the front door of Number Two, where they hesitated. Steve stared at the front door, hauled the key on its string up through the letter box and looked enquiringly at Miranda. ‘Do you think it's too bad of me to wake her? Gran, I mean?'

‘There's no need to wake her,' Miranda whispered, gently taking the key from his hand and inserting it in the lock. ‘You can just check that she's safely asleep in her bed, and then write a little note telling her that you're fine, and will come back later. Agreed?'

Steve was happy with the idea, but as it happened their creeping about was not necessary. As soon as they entered the hallway Granny Granger appeared, coming towards them from the kitchen with a big smile. ‘There's tea in the pot,' she said cheerfully. ‘There's nothin' like a hot cup of tea to set me up for wharrever the new day may hold, but you're early callers, ain't you?' She had ushered them into the kitchen and now jerked a thumb at the clock on the mantel, whose hands pointed at ten
past four. ‘Take off your coats, else you won't feel the benefit,' she instructed. And as Miranda obeyed she looked down at herself and gasped with horror.

The beautiful borrowed dress was torn and filthy, the stole with its twinkling stars ruined. Miranda groaned. ‘Oh, Steve, and I promised I'd take such care of my borrowed finery,' she said. ‘Whatever shall I do?'

‘You can't do anything, of course, but a dress is just a dress. Life and limb are much more important,' Steve said comfortably. ‘Your pal will forgive you; she'll know there was nothing you could have done to keep the dress immaculate.'

Granny Granger bustled out of the pantry, carrying a tin with a picture of the Tower of London on the lid. ‘There's still some cake left and I brewed the tea not ten minutes ago,' she said. ‘Now set yourselves down and tell me if there's anything left of dear old Liverpool. Were it as bad a raid as it sounded?'

Reflecting on the resilience of the old, Miranda sank gratefully into a chair and accepted a cup of tea with eagerness, even agreeing to nibble a slice of seed cake, though it was by no means a favourite with her. ‘Yes, it was dreadful. There are fires and firemen everywhere. I guess when they post the casualty lists later in the day, we'll know just how bad it was in terms of people getting killed. As for damage to property, well, the mind boggles, but it's difficult to judge in the dark.'

Granny Granger nodded. ‘And you'll be glad to hear, young Steve, that I had a telegram from your mam yesterday evening saying she wouldn't be coming after all. It seems she'd had the letter from your pa, and had seen the foolishness of leaving Wales. So If you want to
see her, Kenny and baby Flora, you'd best gerron a bus or train and visit them, instead of the other way round.'

They chatted with the old lady for a bit, agreed to do some shopping for off-ration food, if they could find any, and accepted her invitation to have tea with her. Then Miranda ran down to Number Six and would have tapped on the door, except that as she raised her hand to knock, Mrs Brown from Number Eight appeared on her front doorstep.

‘Mornin', Miranda. You're up and about early,' she remarked. ‘But if you've a mind to wake your aunt, I'd suggest you think again. She spent the best part of the night searchin' for Beth's cat what has been stayin' at Number Six whenever Beth's on shift. She found it in the end because once the raid was over it come home, the way such critters do, so she shut it in the kitchen and went off to catch up on her night's sleep.' She chuckled. ‘And I pity anyone what disturbs her,' she finished.

Relieved to have got out of an encounter which she knew was unlikely to bring her anything but grief, Miranda asked Mrs Brown to tell Aunt Vi that she had been asking for her. Then she and Steve trudged wearily back to the main road, and caught the first bus heading towards the city centre, though it was crowded with folk going to work so they had to stand. As always, Miranda was impressed by their cheerful acceptance of the terrible night they had endured, and saw that Steve, too, admired their fortitude. When they reached the first of the big factories the bus almost emptied and Miranda and Steve slid on to a seat and held hands as the vehicle clattered onwards. ‘I hope we don't wake Avril and Gary,' Miranda said absently, as she tried to stifle an enormous yawn.
‘They won't have stayed in the flat – that would be madness – they'll have been in the basement under the cycle shop. Pete has told us to make free of it. He gave us the key when the war started, and we've used it several times.' She smiled reminiscently. ‘When it starts to get noisy it seems to go to poor Timmy's bladder and he whines at the door to be let out. We always joke that the all clear should be called the free to wee, because Timmy charges up the steps and barely reaches the courtyard before his leg is lifting.'